Carry Me On
by gaelicbard
Summary: In a divergent path, Hawke catches on and stops Anders before it's too late. Anders believes she just panicked and knocked him over the head. Told in small chapters Soldier!Hawke/Anders


this won't be an epic long fic, and the chapters won't be long, but hopefully it's still enjoyable.

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_This is not how it was supposed to go_, Anders thought mildly, and eyed the Templars giving chase with a little annoyance. It was hard to keep up this level of annoyance when he was being jostled every which way. Feeling rather disembodied, he mused that he ought to feel a little more than embarrassed about this. Perhaps even ashamed since he was a man being lugged about by a woman, but this was Hawke – direct, bold and mischievous Hawke who didn't understand 'no' or 'that's really bad, why does that seem okay to you' or 'you've had too much ale I am not healing your hangover again.'

His plan had included the possibility of having to fend off his own kind, mages of the Circle or facing Templars. It had not included Hawke startling like this. His plan didn't include a great many things Hawke-proof.

He decided not to take this terribly personally. Many people never had a Hawke-proof plan, if they did, they wouldn't be cut in half, literally in half, by Sweeper. _Of all the things to name a greatsword Hawke, really_, Anders thought. _But of course she named her mabari Bearskin. And she honestly mocked me for naming my cat Ser Pounce-a-lot. It was clever and he was a good ratter. She will never be a good cat owner. Cats have too much taste_.

It should have bothered him that his thoughts were like flotsam, drifting on a quick current that led nowhere. He couldn't focus for one moment and his eyelids felt heavier than they ever had.

Occasionally his head would bounce off of an armored hip or arse. His stomach was uncomfortably shoved onto a pauldron and he could feel the bruises that were already forming.

He had no idea what went wrong – and strangely Justice was rather quiet about the whole matter. But he felt sleepy and it likely had something to do with the muck Hawke forced down his throat that had left him drowsy and complacent only after of course, in true soldier fashion, Hawke had headbutted him rather brutally.

_Where did it go wrong? She couldn't have known. Did she? Or was it some innate Hawke-danger sense she had? How could she have known what I was going to do – for me, for all the mages being oppressed here? And why, if she knew, why would she stop it_? Anders knew that normally he'd have had some rage and wouldn't be taken to being bounced around like a sack of potatoes on Hawke's shoulder so well, so whatever she gave him – aside from the bloody concussion he was likely to have now – was working well.

Anders gave up trying to force some sort of powerful emotion, or thinking too hard. The headbutt Hawke had assaulted him with was giving him a serious headache and all this unnatural movement wasn't helping.

He listened to the heavy, rushed footfalls of her armored boots, her low panting and the overall clinking of her armor catching on itself. The bouncing of his abdomen turned to rocking as Hawke ducked into a narrow alleyway in Darktown and slowed her dash to a jog. He heard rather than saw her suck in air through her nostrils and out her mouth. She was building up a second wind, in case there was a need to fight when she had an incapacitated mage slung over her like an ill-begotten wife.

The scent of Darktown is broken sewage lines, dusty dirt and the smell of people packed in too tightly together. It's a smell Anders got used to, but found himself spoiled since he was often at the Hawke mansion with Varric and Merrill or at the Hanged Man, wondering how Hawke could drink so much.

She shifted and the heavy plating of his armor pushed into his cheekbone and chin. Anders grunted and squirmed as much as his sedated body would allow. She ignored him and stopped altogether to press against an inset door. "Hawke," Anders said with all the dignity of a man whose face was shoved against an armored backside.

She inhaled deeply again and on her exhale, "What."

"Your arse is not very accommodating. It's denting my face." These words had not exactly what Anders had wanted to say, he'd wanted to edit a bit what had been going through his mind the entire ride. Not a trip, this was not a trip – it was a ride because he was doing no running from the law himself.

Hawke snorted through her nose wetly. "Good. It's penance for the stupid shit you were about to make everyone else muck up after you. You're lucky the Grand Cleric had to use the privy badly, and when you're not being all drunk we are _discussing_ this."

Hawke did not sound much in the way of forgiving, or at all paying any mind to his current discomfort. The clanking of metal made him turn his head a bit, but it only made his nose bump into her opposite hip. Hawke grunted in irritation and fisted a gauntlet at her side and pounded on the door behind them. It swung open and she slid inside, Anders's feet catching at the frame.

Hawke strode in and Anders couldn't see them, but he guessed there was another person in the room. "Tomwise, you have my thanks."

"No problem Hawke. You're one of the few shems that treat us elves alright. Uh. No offense."

Hawke's shoulders shrugged and Anders followed the dip. "A shem's a shem right? Got a cot?"

"Yeah. Come on. Gotta put him in the cellar with my stock though."

And then they were moving. Anders rocked gently on her shoulder and felt sleep beckoning even worse. The room they were in was dimly lit by a few candles scattered about. From his position Anders saw a wooden table with three chairs and in the middle of the room was a nest of blankets and heavy recipe books.

"No problem. Just need to him for a while. You're not going to ask what this is?" Hawke gripped his waist tightly and adjusted him on her shoulder.

"Hawke, it's usually better not to. So, the potion I gave you a couple weeks ago finally came in handy."

"How could you tell?"

"Oh please Hawke. I tend to know my own creations." A moment of silence before, "Don't worry Hawke. Creator, no need to give me that look. It's not poison. A little batch of something that mercenaries usually have use of for hostages. Keeps them awake but pretty tired lemme tell you. Lose their balance, and most of their control in general."

"Sorry Tom. It's like he's drunk."

They moved lower, steps and it was dark. Anders could only see a small shaft of light from the sides – torches. Dimly lit torches.

"That's the point. It wasn't really meant for it, but Meeran ended up using it for a subpar truth serum. Drunk people rarely lie. Only downside is they can't really walk on their own, or be of much use." Another small pause and there was no more stairs, Hawke's walked evened out again. "But I suppose for you that doesn't really matter."

Hawke made an amused sound. "He's pretty light Tom, don't overestimate me."

"Hm. Sure, Hawke. Anyway, towards the back of my stock there's a cot I pulled out. I'll bring some blankets and water down. Just rest, we'll talk payment in the morning."

Footsteps retreating and Anders found himself flopped onto a thin hay stuffed mattress. Hawke's face loomed, tanned and bright eyed in smoldering anger. "You're lucky Tom was around. So am I, I suppose. Wasn't just going to leave you there." And her face moved away.

"Are we hiding?" Anders asked and smelled the air – herbs, spices and acrid oils, "Are we hiding in a poison master's cellar?" he sounded a little incredulous.

"Oh no, no. Don't judge Tom when that little fiasco you had planned wasn't exactly going to bring about rainbows and kittens." Hawke muttered and slid down on the wall beside his head so he couldn't see her anymore.

Anders decided to leave the more complicated matters until later for when he was sober and could piece together an acceptable counter-argument. He listened to the footsteps of Tomwise above and of his companion breathing. "You carried me all the way from the Chantry?" Hawke didn't respond so Anders took it as an affirmative. "_Maker_ you're strong. You've got very broad shoulders."

"It's not a good idea to flirt when you're as close to drunk as you are right now. You tend to make an ass of yourself."

Anders hummed in agreement. "But I like that you're strong. And your broad shoulders too."

Hawke sighed in the dark. "I'm not dealing with this. Go to sleep Anders. We'll talk in the morning."

"Alright, I've got blankets, water and a pot. Here Hawke, figure you should get more blankets since your friend's robes seem more comfortable." There was a shifting of cloth and then Anders was covered with a thick, if a bit scratchy, blanket. "Water's by you Hawke. Keep the pot near his head. I've got a few clients to meet, so I'll be seeing you." Tomwise was already retreating before Hawke called out once.

"Wait, what's the pot for?"

"Oh. Right. Your man is going to be sick as a Dalish in their cups when he comes to. Sorry. Alienage saying."

And then he was gone with the sound of the door shutting.

The two in the cellar were silent. Anders heard Hawke shucking off her armor and settling into the blankets near him.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry Hawke." Anders murmured into the near dark.

He thought Hawke may not have heard him until she spoke seriously, "Sorry for what?"

Anders took this into consideration. He was sorry for a lot things, but he didn't have the cognition to put them all into words. He knew one thing that he was sorry for with absolute clarity and had no muddled feelings on whatsoever. "I'm sorry you had to carry me from the Chantry to Darktown, seems a distance."

Hawke made a noise like the huff of a horse. "You're such a bastard Anders."


End file.
